


Guardians of a Rare Thing

by testosterdile



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Character Study, Crona and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, Cuddling, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Healing, Medusa is Dead AU, Movie Night, Multi, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28145325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/testosterdile/pseuds/testosterdile
Summary: Every inch of Crona’s flesh was on fire. Maka’s breath warmed the space where her head laid, each soft exhale cutting into their skin like tempest winds, reminding them of the air that they undeservedly shared. Crona could feel every drop of black blood in Soul’s body gallop through his veins and capillaries through their touching shoulders, cells racing to the heart that beat just underneath the mountain range of angry scar tissue and sutures. The movie in front of them was barely comprehensible through the searing heat. Crona almost missed it when the main character started speaking again in passionate vibrato:“We are all fools in love.”
Relationships: Crona/Soul Eater Evans, Maka Albarn/Crona, Maka Albarn/Crona/Soul Eater Evans, Maka Albarn/Soul Eater Evans
Comments: 14
Kudos: 68





	Guardians of a Rare Thing

**Author's Note:**

> I might’ve written 30k for SoMa so far but I really love all the combinations with these three (this is actually my absolute favorite SE ship). The movie I reference is Pride and Prejudice, but no knowledge on the work is needed as I'm just taking quotes and taking huge liberties where they appear anyway.
> 
> Content Warnings: Brief references to past child abuse and the trauma that surrounds it (Medusa); Light cursing

“Is it still broken, Crona?”

Sheltered underneath a fortress of pillows and blankets, the meister made a nervous noise of affirmation. They leaned their back against one of the “walls” (which was really just the side of Soul and Maka’s sofa) and stretched their legs, careful to avoid the bar stools propping up the massive structure. The blankets that surrounded them blocked out the late evening sunlight, casting them in cool, protective shadow.

In front of Crona, outside of the comfort of their fort, Soul sat on his haunches with his back facing them. He had been fiddling with the DVD player for the past ten minutes, cursing every so often as the machine’s whirring started, stopped, and started again. The TV above him flickered between the black ‘NO INPUT’ screen and the movie menu, uncertain of where it wanted to ultimately land. He didn’t look up from his work when he groaned.

“Damn it. Maka’s gonna be so pissed.”

“How long until she comes back?” Crona asked, anxiously picking the fuzz on their pajama bottoms. Maka had gifted it to them on their one month anniversary at Shibusen. The pants were decorated with pink cartoon octopuses, complimenting the smiling blue sharks that swam along Soul’s own pair (also a gift from his partner, most likely).

“Ten minutes, give or take,” he said. “Depends on if Eddie’s working the oven or not.”

Crona paused to think. “We could always play a board game instead? Doesn’t she like that one game with the cute little houses?”

“The game with the litt— Monopoly? No way, Maka _hates_ Monopoly. She only makes us play because she thinks having you around would make me more likely to lose.” He scoffed in amusement. “She says I’m cheating because I used to be rich.”

“Well, you do always win…” Even when the two meisters inevitably teamed up, Soul somehow managed to end every game with more than half of the colorful bills in the box.

“Yeah, because I make smart deals and don’t buy every single property I land on! Judging by the way she plays, you’d think it a miracle that we still make rent every month!” He shook his head before continuing. 

“Besides, even if she did like it, _Pride and Prejudice_ is her absolute favorite movie. She was blabbering all week about how much she wanted to show it to you.”

A sudden wave of nervous heat washed over Crona at the idea of Maka thinking of them, of wanting to share something as... _intimate_ as a film that she liked. There was no way for them to articulate just how much those small acts of kindness meant to them, not without tearing out their still beating soul and presenting it to her on a silver platter.

“O-oh! That’s... very nice of her,” they pathetically said instead, deciding to forego the metaphysical dissection (for now, anyway).

“You say that now but wait until you actually watch it," he groaned, a deep throaty sound of teenage apathy. "It’s so boring, it’s like two hours of neverending _torture_.”

“I can’t imagine Maka liking anything boring.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised! That girl is somehow both the coolest and lamest person in all of Death City. It’s a talent, honestly; somebody should give her a medal for it.”

“That’s not very nice, Soul.” He still wasn’t facing them, but Crona could practically hear his eyes graze the roof of his skull as he rolled them.

“Oh, whatever,” he said. “You and her both know I say it with nothing but love.”

Though his tone was nonchalant, Crona felt the black blood racing through his veins titter as it traversed a sudden skip in his heartbeat, agitated at the vulnerability the slip of a single four-letter word wrought.

Love, huh?

Love was a concept Crona was just beginning to familiarize themselves with, three months after the battle that left them orphaned and imprisoned within the DWMA. It wasn’t something that was taught in class; rather, they studied its perplexing dance between Maka and Soul in secret, mentally archiving every step in the sentimental foxtrots and tangoes that propelled each and every one of their interactions. It was different than what their mother had called love, lacking any of the acid stings of maternal affection that they were accustomed to.

Instead, it was defined by lengthy verbal games of wit, toothless sarcasm and jokes used to make the other flush with laughter; intense vows of protective loyalty given at the slightest provocation, or shoulder hugs and high-fives at every shared firework of success; soft expressions unknowingly worn while the other was distracted, eyes yearning and misty, unsure of how to vocalize the love that each and every one of their actions made so obvious, as if saying it out loud would yank the rug out from under the cautious waltz of their souls.

Crona tried not to think about how the pair’s habits have recently swelled to include them in its intimate embrace, of the implications surrounding every fleeting touch and longing side eye once exclusive to the privacy of their partnership. It couldn’t have been love, they told themselves, not when it was directed towards Crona. The only love they knew they deserved took the form of manicured claws scraping the scalp underneath greasy baby pink, caressing pets given as a reward in between stinging backhands and the darkness of isolation.

No, what Soul and Maka gave them wasn’t love; it was nothing more than a twisted sense of pity, undeserved compensation for the scraps that Medusa had once fed them. The thought made Crona sick to their stomach.

The TV continued to flash. It plunged the room in and out of darkness as if someone were flicking a lightswitch. _On. Off. On. Off. On. Off._

“-na, are you alright? Crona?”

They startled at the sound of their name, pulling their attention away from the hypnotic rhythm that blinked in time with each twisting thought. Soul hadn’t moved from his crouched position, head still facing away, though the worry in his voice subtly colored the syllables in his words, an almost imperceptible shift in intonation that could be mistaken as an accent to the untrained ear.

“O-oh! Sorry,” they stammered. “I’m here. I’m here.” The repetition was more of a reminder for themselves than for Soul. He sighed out of equal parts relief and exasperation.

“I swear, you’re just as bad as Maka with the whole daydreaming thing. I was just asking how you were doing, though I think I just got my answer.”

The familiar warmth of embarrassment crossed their face. “Sorry… um…” They hesitated, scrambling through their muddled thoughts. “I’m good! I’m doing good.”

“You’re not lying to me, are you?”

_“You wouldn’t lie to your poor mother, would you, Crona?”_

“I’m not lying.” The words came out too quickly, too harshly, to be entirely convincing. The black blood in Soul bucked anxiously in time with theirs, though his voice betrayed nothing aside from the slight accent of concern.

“You sure?”

Were they? Crona thought they were okay, but the pressure of Soul’s sudden inquiries and the remnants of their mother’s influence created an unbearable cacophony in their soul. Even if they wanted to respond, they couldn’t, not with the lack of air in their lungs and lump in their throat. Amidst the anxious noise, Maka’s voice chimed, clear and loud as if she were in the room. _Just breathe for me, okay? Breathe._

They did so shakily ( _four in, hold, eight out, four in, hold, eight out_ ), willing their heart to slow while organizing their thoughts. When the clamor turned into a dull nervous hum, they responded, trying to lace their words with an unfelt confidence.

“I promise, Soul. I’m doing okay.”

He paused in response as if weighing his options. His fingers idly tapped a melody on the DVD player’s plastic surface.

“If you say so,” he finally said, shrugging. He didn’t sound entirely convinced, nonchalance a touch too forced to be genuine, but unlike his partner, Soul wasn’t one to push or prod for false reassurances. Instead, his voice took on a semi-teasing tone, imitating the lilt of a young school child.

“But if I find out you’re lying, I’m telling Maka.”

Crona wasn’t sure why his words got them so flustered, the image of Maka cooing and fussing over them replacing the previous noise in their head.

“T-then, I’ll tell her that you broke the DVD player by dropping it!” they shouted instinctively, regretting it almost immediately when their brain caught up to the fact that they had just _threatened_ one of their only friends.

His resounding laughter immediately eased the tightness in their chest. It was a strong, musical sound, much rarer than Maka’s peals but just as captivating, filling the silence between them with bassy honey. Crona cautiously allowed themselves a small smile as well, a minute upturn of the lips kept secret from the weapon.

“Blackmail, eh? Didn’t think you had it in you,” he laughed. “Alrighty then, Crona-- you drive a hard bargain. As far as Maka is concerned, you are doing perfectly a-okay, and I did _not_ break our only DVD player.”

He stood from his crouching position, legs popping as the TV continued its lightshow behind him. His head disappeared above the canopy of the pillow fort, leaving Crona with the sudden unease of an unresolved conversation.

“Soul?” they called.

“What’s up?” He knelt down to face them, peeking his head into the den of pillows. The loose cut of his tank top exposed the tip of the scar dancing on his collarbone.

Crona hesitated. “...was that okay? What I just said?”

He smiled, a small quirk of the lips that betrayed a tender patience not unlike Maka’s own. It made Crona want to turn away.

“Of course it was,” he said breezily. “As a matter of fact, I think I might actually like hearing your voice, believe it or not.”

The meister was glad that he couldn’t see souls the way Maka could. There was no way he could’ve known about the warm, restless buzzing in their soul, the same one that sang after every successful outing or conversation with friends (and isn’t that a concept, that they even had _friends_ in the first place). It wasn’t an entirely pleasant feeling, doubt and terror still taking up a majority of the emotional space, but it wasn’t unpleasant either. It was the kind of anxiety that disguised fond pride or excitement, like the one they got while waiting in line for the rollercoaster at DeathWorld.

 _“It means that you’re healing,”_ Maka had told them once, a few short weeks after their initial enrollment. _“It means that despite all your fears, you really do want to make connections with people-- with us. I promise you that the feeling won’t last forever, but until then you have to keep fighting it. You’re so much braver than you think, Crona.”_

Soul’s face suddenly fell, and for a brief moment Crona thought that he regretted his brief display of kindness before he shyly uttered;

“But for real though, _please_ don’t tell Maka about the DVD player.”

“Don’t tell Maka about what?”

Soul perked up at the sound of her voice ringing over the slam of the front door. He shot back upright before half-jogging towards the source, reminding Crona of the dogs they sometimes saw at the park, the ones that bounded eagerly towards their owners after the briefest moments of separation. The smell of warm cheese and dough beginning to permeate the room told them that Maka’s pizza run had been a success. Crona crawled out from under the fort, feeling embarrassingly infantile as they did so.

When they exited the shadow and saw her face, it was as if the sun itself shone just for them.

Maka was as bright as the day they first met, almost unbearably so. Her hair was down, long tresses draping over her shoulders and framing her face like a renaissance painting. Everything she touched, from the people she met to the ground under her feet, sprouted with life. She clashed with Crona’s darkness, meticulously plucking every putrid seed Medusa planted in their soul, root by root, and replacing them with her own; ones that blossomed into sprawling gardens under the light of her radiance. Their heart ached with guilt and gratitude.

The illusion was broken by Soul’s inelegant grunt as Maka dumped the the pile of pizza boxes into his unsuspecting arms. His face vanished behind the stack, leaving behind only snow capped peaks of hair cresting over cardboard. Crona idly wondered whether it would be soft to the touch.

“Jesus, Maka. You make it look like we haven’t eaten in weeks.” The dining table was only a few feet away, yet by the time he dropped the food onto it his arms were trembling like leaves in a windstorm.

“Mozzarella Mori’s was having a deal on two toppings and crazy sticks!” she crowed, evidently proud of her savvy shopping. “Meaning that you can get your weird nasty pizzas, and Crona and I can have our normal, delicious, edible ones.”

“Again, anchovies are a perfectly normal pizza topping,” he grumbled. “Fruit, on the other hand, is an affront to the entire nation-state of Italy.” A scarred finger poked his abdomen harshly, causing him to yelp in surprise. 

“Besides,” Maka continued unperturbed, “your stomach is practically a bottomless pit. I had to make sure there was enough for the rest of us. Especially Crona, who rarely eats enough as it is.”

She pointed to the underfed offender, causing them to startle at the sudden attention.

“W-wait, that’s not true!” they stuttered. “I actually get to eat everyday now! And the school makes sure there’s enough for Ragnorak, so he only steals mine if he’s in a bad mood.” Which was… well, more often than they would've liked. Aside from that, however, it was honestly refreshing to not have to ration food in preparation for an unexpected famine or punishment.

Judging the the twisting of Maka’s face and the cringe on Soul’s, they disagreed, the same mix of anger and sympathy appearing in their expressions whenever the topic of Medusa’s parenting was brought up. Crona was beginning to suspect that a lot of their experiences weren’t exactly things you’d put in a family photo album.

The weapon, never one to act on his pity in front of others, recovered first, shrugging off his discomfort in an exaggerated motion. “See, they’re fine. I think you’re only blaming us because you don’t want to admit you eat more than enough for the three of us combined.”

Maka cast a worried glance at Crona that said _we’ll talk about that later._ She opened her mouth to retort to Soul before her eyes wandered off their face, finally noticing the flashing that came from the living room. _On. Off. On. Off. On._

“What’s up with the TV?” she asked instead.

“Oh, that? I don’t know,” Soul said, the lie slipping out a bit too easily for Crona’s liking. He helped himself to a slice of anchovy and mushroom. “The DVD player just stopped working all of a sudden.”

“That’s odd... it worked the last time I used it.”

He didn’t wait until swallowing before speaking again. “Maybe it finally decided that it hates _Pride and Prejudice_ as much as I do. Good riddance, if you ask me.”

Maka knelt down to check the machine. When her back was turned, Soul winked in an exaggerated motion while shooting Crona a thumbs-up with his free hand. They awkwardly returned the gesture, certain that their smile looked more like a grimace.

_BANG!_

The demon sword leapt a foot into the air when Maka brought her fist crashing down onto the mechanism, subsequent noise reverberating throughout the entire apartment like a gunshot. The TV flicked to life, finally remaining on the looping movie menu. By the time the sound of rushing blood in Crona’s ears subsided, heart still hammering at a jackrabbit’s pace, the two partners were already knee deep in another fiery conversation.

“--u know, you can’t just fix every problem with violence.” Judging by the new pizza shaped stain on the floor, Soul didn’t fare much better at the sudden noise.

“It’s worked so far, hasn’t it?” Maka countered, puffing her chest despite already towering over him in height.

“For pre-kishins, Maka, not our appliances! The toaster _still_ doesn’t work right since you put that massive dent into it!”

“Toast is overrated anyway,” she said, ignoring Soul’s offended noise. “It’s just hot stale bread! Who wants to eat stale bread?”

“I do! With butter!” He ran his hands through his hair, accidentally coating the strands with grease. “I swear to God, this city teaches their kids how to fucking _fistfight_ before their ABCs and 123s.”

“Oh, and what would your family have done? Just go out and buy a new one, I assume?”

“Of course not,” he scoffed. “We’d have our butler do that.”

Crona watched their easy back and forth, challenging tones betrayed by an undercurrent of playful fondness and domestic familiarity. It was hard to imagine Soul, who spoke so freely around his meister, as the sheltered, anxious boy he once admitted himself to being.

But they recalled how he sometimes lingered on the edge of the crowd when they all went out as a group, or his habit of hiding out on balconies rather than mingling at parties, preferring the night chill over the heat of interaction; the subtle snarl in his words at strangers trying to get too close, masking a fear surprisingly similar to Crona’s own. Even without the madness coursing through his veins, they felt a strange sort of kinship with the weapon. Ironically, it was their shared aversion to people that first got them to connect, the terror of sociability and trust finally bridging the gap between the two teens after months of awkward small-talk and guilty glances.

If Maka was the sun, celestial and untouchable, then Soul was the Earth. He was tangible, grounding, unmysterious in the areas that mattered the most. His words might have been stilted, laced with double meanings that Crona still had a hard time catching, but they were never malicious. Kindness didn’t come easily to him, but that’s okay— it didn’t come easily to them either. He gave them a different kind of reassurance, an example of all the good that could come out of people like the two of them.

The trauma of Italy never fully went away. Crona didn’t tell him that they could feel the black blood course through him, feel it buzz when he’s frustrated or hear its siren song during combat. Yet despite their shared apprehension, Crona and Soul understood each other, the same fears and darkness that plagued them both converging into orbit around the solar star that brightened both their lives-- Maka Albarn.

Crona wondered about their place in their microcosmic solar system. Perhaps they were a comet, doomed to eternally circle the stars and sun until the heat melted it into the nothingness of space. Or maybe they were a meteor, burning as they punctured through atmospheres and leaving massive craters of destruction where they touched.

Secretly, hidden away from the thoughts of rocks and dust, Crona liked to consider themselves the moon; a constant, steady protector, illuminated only by light from afar, connecting the Sun and Earth through marvelous eclipses and endless cycles of waxing and waning.

Most likely, though, they were just space junk-- the flotsam and jetsam of failed hubris that nobody could be bothered to claim, aimlessly navigating a sea of celestial marvels, lethal and ugly.

* * *

Crona and Maka made themselves comfortable under the pillow fort, paper plates of half-eaten pizzas balanced on their blanketed laps. In the kitchen, Soul hummed a jazz piece to himself while preparing glasses of drinks, leaving the two meisters alone in the privacy of their makeshift shelter. 

“So,” Maka began, grabbing their attention away from counting the dancing penguins on her pajama bottoms. “How are you feeling, Crona? I hope Soul didn’t give you too much trouble while I was away.”

While her tone was light, Crona knew she still felt nervous leaving the two alone together.

“He was nice,” they said before remembering their earlier conversation. “He didn’t drop the DVD player.”

Maka rolled her eyes at the sudden choking sound coming from the kitchen. She leaned in, lowering her voice in concern. “But are _you_ okay? I think I caught you spacing out a little earlier. We can always save this for another night if you’re not up for it.”

Crona blushed, embarrassed at the fact that they were once again caught lost in their thoughts. Their eyes darted away from her attentive stare, focusing instead on the plate on their lap.

“S-sorry. I was just thinking.”

She shook her head, smiling. “No need to apologize. What were you thinking about?”

Their hands tore up the edges of their plate nervously. Images of broken satellites drifted through their mind.

“Us... All of us,” they murmured.

Maka made a quiet noise of surprise. “Us as in… you and Soul?” 

Crona swallowed thickly and nodded. “You, too. All three of us.” Seconds passed in silence as she thought of a response.

“Does that make you feel good or bad?” 

The kind hesitance in her voice made Crona’s chest seize. Somewhere, a meteor crashes into a field, leaving it hollow and lifeless.

“I-I don’t know…” they choked out, withering underneath her radiance. “G-good, I think?”

“Crona. Look at me, please.”

Her tone was caring but firm. They did so hesitantly, surprised to find a light blush dusting her cheeks as well. The familiar resolute jade of her eyes reminded them of the depth of her patience, sparkling in the faint moonlight that seeped into their apartment.

 _“Breathe_ ,” the Maka in their head chimed.

They took a deep breath before responding with as much sincerity as they could.

“Good.” _Inhale_ . _Exhale._ “It’s good. I-I’m doing good.”

She nodded before asking, “1-10?”

The familiar question soothed some of the anxiety in their soul. They paused to think, sifting through the emotions of the night so far.

“7,” they decided. Maka beamed, causing Crona to turn away in embarrassment.

“Hey, not bad!” She grabbed the hand closest to her, giving it a reassuring squeeze that made their heart leap into their throat. “Let me know the instant that changes, okay?”

“I will."

She let go of their hand and held out a pinkie.

"Promise me?"

"I... promise." They lightly touched the tip of their pinkie with Maka's, surprised to find that they actually meant it.

The soft chorus of clinking glass announced the arrival of Soul. He made an impressive display of balancing three cups of soda and a plate of pizza on the flat of his scythe arm, careful not to spill a drop as he crouched to enter the fort. 

“Good to know that if the whole Death Scythe thing doesn’t work out, I’d make a killer busboy.” He passed out the glasses before de-transforming and sitting beside Crona, placing them in between the two partners. In front of them, the movie menu continued its purgatorius loop.

After a brief argument as to who should get up to turn the movie on (Soul lost), it suddenly occurred to Crona that they had absolutely no idea what the film was about. They asked as the copyright warnings flipped through the screen, earning an enthused gasp from Maka and an irritated groan from Soul. He was quicker to respond.

“Some stupid Victorian ro—“

“Regency,” Maka interrupted.

“Sorry, _Regency_ era romance about these British people like, going to houses and dancing or some shit.” He shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t see the appeal of a bunch of rich assholes in fancy clothes making asses of themselves. If I wanted to see that, I’d never have moved away from home.”

Maka scoffed. “Don’t listen to him, Crona. He’s nothing but a bitter philistine.” She stuck her tongue out at Soul’s middle finger before continuing. “It may seem like a regular romantic drama at first, but it’s actually a beautiful satire of 19th century society and gender roles, featuring a strong female protagonist and cast.”

“O-oh! I think I understand now,” they nodded, not understanding a single thing at all. 

“Speaking of,” Soul started with a hint of mischief, “did you know Maka’s first crush was Keira Knightley.” He pointed to the screen where a young woman now walked through a meadow reading a book.

She sputtered into her drink. “Soul! That was supposed to be a secret!” Her face burnt bright red as she reached over Crona to bat his offending finger away from the TV. His honey laugh mingled with the the orchestral music playing from its tinny speakers.

Crona didn’t see why she was so embarrassed. Even they could see that the actress was attractive, plain dress and simple hairstyle accentuating her natural beauty. She moved elegantly and with a purpose, weaving between setpieces with a book in her hand. In fact, she reminded them a lot of Maka, who was now pouting next to them.

“I think she’s pretty,” they said idly, deciding to keep the comparison to themselves.

“Thank you, Crona,” Maka responded hotly. She was still red but had seemingly recovered from the worst of her humiliation. “At least somebody here has taste.”

Soul only shrugged. “I never said she wasn’t. She just isn’t my type.”

“What is your type?” Crona asked without thinking, startling at the sudden flustered skip they felt in his heartbeat. They thought they caught Soul glancing at the two beside him before Maka jostled them both in excitement, drawing Crona’s attention away from the weapon.

“Shh…! It’s starting!”

The trio fell into silence as the characters fluttered about on-screen. Soul was right; the movie did have people going into houses and dancing. Even so, Crona found themselves getting increasingly invested in the lives of the Bennet sisters, silently cheering on their search for marriage. When they went to a ball, an incredibly severe looking man glared over the festivities, adamantly refusing to take part.

_“Do you dance, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth asked._

_The man looked down at her in contempt. “Not if I can help it.”_

Soul snorted beside them. “What an ass.”

Crona felt an elbow dig gently into their opposite side. Maka gestured for them to lean closer before whispering in their ear.

“Doesn’t he remind you a little of someone?”

She subtly gestured to the boy and chuckled as he remained ignorant of her teasing. Crona stifled a shy laugh of their own, imagining Soul scowling in an elaborately stuffy suit, cravat, buttons and all. The funniest part was that it would not have been a stretch to assume that’s what he looked like before joining the DWMA.

“I think Soul’s a little nicer, though,” they whispered back, unable to keep the smile from their voice.

“Barely.” The single word wrought another round of laughter from the meisters; despite the quieter volume, it was as wondrous as the first time they heard the sound of their mirth embrace.

“What are you two laughing about over there?” Soul asked. His stoic confusion only made it harder for Maka to stop.

“Nothing, nothing,” she assured. “Meister talk.”

He rolled his eyes before wordlessly returning his attention to the film. His blood pranced in secret at the sight of their joy.

As the movie progressed, the commentary from the weapon became less frequent. On screen, houses were visited, dances were had, carriages were ridden, and hands were touched and flexed. Romances bloomed, died, and bloomed again. About an hour and a half since the movie began, Crona felt a weight on their shoulder that made their heart freeze.

Soul’s head had lolled onto the side of their arm. His eyes were closed and his mouth was slack, warm breaths deeply even with sleep. Tufts of white tickled Crona’s cheek and neck, fluffy and plentiful.

Huh. His hair _was_ as soft as it looked.

“Maka…” they cautiously whispered, acting as if the slightest wrong movement would set off a ticking bomb. “Maka…!”

She turned away from the screen, eyes widening when they caught the scene before her. They were wide with worry, but also housed a spark of something else she was trying to tamper down-- amusement.

“Oh, shit,” she muttered. “I didn’t even realize he fell asleep.” Her finger roughly poked his cheek. No response. “Out like a light, huh. He’d always been a heavy sleeper.”

Crona meant to say something along the lines of _yes, I can see that now._ What came out was a sound akin to a cat being drowned in a freezing river.

Maka looked at them sympathetically. “You can push him off if you need to,” she said, already moving to do so. “He really won’t mind if you wake him up.”

“N-no! It’s okay!” Maka looked just as surprised as they felt, hand frozen on Soul’s shoulder.

“Are you sure?”

And for once in their life, Crona was. They weren’t sure why, but once the initial anxiety ebbed away, the feeling of Soul’s body on theirs felt… _nice._ The pressure and warmth of contact was grounding, in a way. It was uncomfortable, but pleasantly so, almost like the strange anxious buzz in their soul that Maka had described as healing. They weren’t sure how to explain to her how the simple feeling of touch impacted them, breaking down the ugly machines of isolation that Medusa spent so many years oiling. 

“He’s... warm,” they said instead, hoping not to sound as pathetic as they felt.

Maka’s shock melted away into something akin to fondness as she returned her hand to her side. “Okay, but don’t come crying to me when he starts drooling on you.”

“I won’t.” Crona hesitantly mirrored her smile before turning back to the screen, trying their hardest to ignore the Soul-shaped weight on their shoulder.

They weren’t the only one now distracted from the film, however. From the corner of their eye, Crona caught Maka casting longing glances towards the two, opening her mouth before closing it again, each time sending shocks of unease through their soul. After the seventh time, Crona was just about to explode with anxiety before Maka finally blurted out;

“C-can I lay on you too?”

Soul made a weak noise of protest as Crona whipped their head to gawk at her. In an unexpected reversal of roles, Maka was the one looking away, beet red and fidgeting.  
  
“S-sorry, pretend I didn’t say that,” she muttered, flicking her eyes between the sleeping boy and pizza crusts on the floor. Crona’s soul ached.

“Maka--”

“I meant lay like on our backs!” she said suddenly, startling them both with her volume. She continued, quieter though just as frantic. “Next to each other. Side by side. Not touching.”

“Maka, it’s o--”

“Y-yes, it’s a long movie! It would be more comfortable for everybody if we all lay down together. On our backs. As separate individuals.”

Crona fumbled for her hand, careful not to jostle the sleeping figure on their shoulder. They weren’t sure if the shaking came from their fingers or hers.

“Maka, breathe.”

Her eyes widened before she nodded, taking in a deep breath and letting it out. She continued for a few more minutes, Crona matching her rhythm until the blush drained from both of their faces. The movie continued in the background, forgotten. Maka opened her mouth to apologize before Crona interrupted her.

“It’s okay,” they stammered out. The buzzing in their soul grew louder. “Y-you can lay on me if you want to.”

Maka still looked unsure, torn between her desire for contact and respect of their personal space. Crona squeezed her hand again, a silent reassurance of their willingness.

"Alright," she eventually whispered. The word came out as a sigh of relief.

Crona braced themselves as she slowly lowered her head onto their lap. Her long hair pooled like a waterfall on their legs before her skull finally made contact, causing Crona to involuntarily shiver. They focused on their own breathing as she made herself comfortable, their soul tearing itself in two between _don’t touch, don’t touch, don’t touch,_ and _more, more, more, more._

“Is this okay, Crona?” They barely heard her voice over the overwhelming buzzing under their skin.

Every inch of Crona’s flesh was on fire. Maka’s breath warmed the space where her head laid, each soft exhale cutting into their skin like tempest winds, reminding them of the air that they undeservedly shared. Crona could feel every drop of black blood in Soul’s body gallop through his veins and capillaries through their touching shoulders, cells racing to the heart that beat just underneath the mountain range of angry scar tissue and sutures. The movie in front of them was barely comprehensible through the searing heat. Crona almost missed it when the main character started speaking again in passionate vibrato:

_“We are all fools in love.”_

Ah, was that what this was?

Crona closed their eyes, focusing on the rise and fall of their chests, of the tangibility of their lives in tandem with theirs.

They thought of Maka’s greengrass eyes blooming with pride as she spoke; of the honey-sweet texture of Soul’s hard earned mirth and awkward words of advice; of the feeling of two sets of firm arms around their shoulders after every battle won, uncaring of the inky blood and sweat mingling on their flesh.

They thought of the radiance of the sun and the weight of the world, wrapped around their soul in a protective embrace. Crona listened to the buzzing in their soul, and leaned into it.

Love was a concept they were only beginning to understand, yet as the overwhelming flames under their skin ebbed into a comfortable warmth, Crona suddenly knew one thing for certain:

They loved them.

“Crona?” Maka called again from their lap, failing to mask the worry in her voice.

“I’m okay,” they responded almost on instinct. For once, they entirely believed their own words.

“How do you feel?”

“I feel… good. Really good,” Crona started hesitantly. “Touching still feels weird, maybe a little scary, but it’s a good kind of scary. I know you won’t hurt me. And I know Soul wouldn’t, either. It’s warm like… like sunshine. I think I feel...” They faltered, almost as if they were afraid to speak it into existence.

“I feel safe.”

They couldn’t see Maka’s face, but the soft tenderness in her voice made them want to cry.

“That makes me happy. I’m… I’m really proud of you, Crona.”

On screen, the characters whom they had forgotten the names of stood in an endless field of green.

“Hey, Crona?”

“Yes, Maka?”

“1-10?”

They smiled at the familiar question. The answer was obvious now, almost painfully so. Surrounded by celestial guardians of loyalty and love, caught within the kiss of an eclipse of souls, Crona had never felt more at peace.

“10.”

The man on the screen fell to one knee in a fervent passion, speaking the words none of the teenagers would ever have the courage to say out loud;

_“You have bewitched me, body and soul. And I love, and love, and love you.”_

_“And never wish to be parted from you from this day on.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Riches and Wonders by The Mountain Goats. You can find my SoCroMa playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/22LYtxFVh3LTUZY5bth3KM)
> 
> This was something small I started and chipped at in between final exams and papers to destress, as I didn’t want to work on “Hands” until I was completely free. P&P is actually my favorite book, and I highly recommend checking it out to anybody who's interested in that era of writing.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, likes and comments are always greatly appreciated!! I just really need to know that there are other SoCroMa truthers out there… OTL


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